Fiction in 58 (for Buddhists)

Put a fresh notebook on the nightstand the other night and didn’t put anything in it until very early this morning (I think; I didn’t look at the clock). It was one simple line, four words.
The development across the street finally turned the new streetlights on, which gives my bedroom sort of this candle-lit glow which is really just the orangey-gold cast from the sodium vapor lights. It does make writing things down easier; I no longer have to turn on the nightstand light.

Those four words became the opening in today’s Fiction in 58. Please enjoy.

Transiency, Sorrow, Selflessness

“I’ve never seen a Buddhist in a fistfight.”
The tremendous mound of flesh spoke from behind a dimpled beer mug, flannel and leather, greasy hair, a mustache ringed with foam.
To no one, everyone. A challenge, a curse.
The Buddhist rose, flush with anger and remembered a noble truth: “suffering exists.”
He passed, nodded, paid the brute’s tab.


Phil Fountain said...

Ah, Mr. G, I've always known you were a true bodhisattva. Wonderful. Thanks.